A Very Relevant Talk with Mr Sherlock Holmes
by Myne Comix Meg
Summary: as Documented by his Biographer, John H. Watson, M.D. (in which, Sherlock Holmes pays an evening visit to his dear friend John Watson and all is cozy and goes swimmingly! May the bromance always be evident between these two old chums! Rated Teen for Conan Doyle's English style, as it might be a difficult read for younger readers. Other than that, enjoy!)


**A Very Relevant Talk with Mr. Sherlock Holmes**

_as Documented by his Biographer, John H. Watson, M.D._

"By Jove! But you really do frighten me at times," I remarked to my friend, Sherlock Holmes, of an evening a year or so after my marriage. It had been almost a fortnight since he'd passed a late night at my home, as was his habit since I no longer made my residence at Baker Street, and I was quite happy to admit him to my hearth for a smoke and chat. He had just finished expounding to me the particulars of a singularly horrifying case, and I readily passed a hand over my brow once he'd finished.

Holmes smiled.

"Tut, you've more than the stomach for it, my dear doctor," he replied, rings of blue smoke rising from his pipe.

I shook my head wonderingly.

"But to place those children in such danger-,"

"Street waifs who would as soon beg or steal your late brother's fine gift watch," Holmes said in a bored tone of voice, steepling his fingers philosophically. "The Baker Street division of the detective police force is well able to take care of themselves; these befogged streets have stolen what little innocence they had left in return for the smarts with which to survive them. It is well that I give them more useful duties to perform with their keen, watchful eyes, and cunning little brains, is it not?"

"Still, they are only children," I reasoned kindly.

"Rubbish. They are even more quick-witted and clever than I give them credit for," he insisted stubbornly. "I don't wish for their heads to swell."

"At least they seem to like you," I compromised with a smile, my statement bringing a small quirk to his lips in return.

The children we spoke of were a poor ragtag gang, who, as I later learned, referred to themselves as the Baker Street Irregulars. Lead by the spry, clever youth Holmes referred to as Wiggins, I suspect many of them were orphans, mothered instead by London's cold, barren, filthy alleyways, living off the charity of the soft-hearted, wealthy benevolent, or by snatching purses whilst another of the urchins distracted their prey. Some of them made more honest livings as apprentices and the like, but the Irregulars' funds were most likely still meager, and Holmes was kind, if unintentionally, to send them on small errands as his spies at a fair price, and they exchanged their services for his wages eagerly.

Sherlock Holmes sighed, then smiled again suddenly, as though a new thought pleased him.

"Perhaps I should employ your cheeky little devil once he is of age, eh, Watson?" he teased playfully. "No doubt he'll be most clever like yourself."

"Oh, do come now!" I protested. "And suppose it is a girl? Will you drag her about on your morbid adventures and cases as well?"

"Naturally, I should say so. Any Watson is welcome at Baker Street," said Holmes in such a matter of fact manner, as though he took it for granted as a matter of course that all my descendants would proceed me to assist the world's only consulting detective as biographer.

"Really, Holmes!" I said incredulously. "If it were not set in the stone laws of nature that the Earth revolves around the sun, I dare say I am tempted to think that you assume it revolves about yourself!"

I shook my head.

Sherlock Holmes laughed amiably.

"Don't worry yourself, my friend," said Holmes with a reassuring hand on my wrist. "I shan't steal away the fledglings from the Watson nest with my criminology and chemicals. I prefer that the tykes should go through life untouched; though we know full well that such a sentiment shall never ring true in our time or city."

A solemn air descended over his brow. It was apparent to my observations that he had been much affected by the evil of the day's doings.

"Nothing precious in man's esteem is safe, Watson," he intimated gently. "The East Wind takes us all in the end."

His cold, slender fingers still rested against my wrist, yet I made no move to escape the absent-minded touch. It was not often my friend deemed such a thing appropriate, save to pull me vigorously along London's cobble-riddled streets, or to yank my life out of some sudden, imminent danger; he was close to himself, and intimate with none save myself in the barest verbal sense. Now, it was only his lonely side coming out to sober him, manifesting in his distant gaze into my glowing fireplace embers, and the distracted, abstract way in which he spoke, accompanied by his lingering hand. By these things, I knew his familiar, dark reaction to all the work he'd been engaged in recently was preying upon him, waiting, lurking in the corners of that splendid mind, and soon he'd be driven to his sofa where for days he would settle down with that detestable cocaine bottle and syringes he kept upon the fireplace mantle of Baker Street. Naught but himself could rouse him once he gave in to the deep depression which frequently seized him after such thoroughly exhausting affairs as he'd earlier confided to me, and I had it in mind not to let him fall into it this time.

Leaving the sitting room to rot in the despondent silence for only a few moments, I patted the tired, delicate, slim appendage hesitantly yet fondly.

Holmes flinched at the unexpected human contact.

"Perhaps not," I acquiesced slowly. "However, death and the like be damned."

Holmes raised his saddened eyes to mine, and I smiled reassuringly.

"I shall never loose the hard-won prize of your friendship, nor you my admiration, my dear Sherlock Holmes, no matter how many times your countless enemies or head-long rushes into danger try to steal them from us."

Holmes' gaze grew less discouraged as he listened to my words, and at length, he even smiled. It was then I understood that he knew exactly at every moment what I was attempting to do for him, and that I did it for his own good as well as for his health, as I shall always be what I am: a doctor.

"Nor shall I, John Watson," he replied warmly, returning the kind gesture to my hand. "What more could I say: I would be truly lost without you, my own, dear Boswell."

"Indeed, you would," said I, adjusting in my seat comfortably.

Holmes arched a brow and gave me a roguish look.

"Tell me, Watson, have you always been such a splendid physician for putting aside the unrest of my mind?" he asked.

"Of course," I replied with a slight falsely indignant tone. "I took an oath."

Then, Sherlock Holmes chuckled.

And with that, he stood and tapped his tobacco ashes into the fire.

* * *

**A/N: ****For those unfamiliar with the term _Boswell_, and the rather sentimental use of it in regards to John Watson, here is an explanation given by**** Wikipedia and also held by most other more reliable sources: **

James Boswell, 9th Laird of Auchinleck (29 October 1740 – 19 May 1795) was a lawyer, diarist, and author born in Edinburgh, Scotland. He is best known for the biography he wrote of one of his contemporaries, the English literary figure Samuel Johnson, which the modern Johnsonian critic Harold Bloom has claimed is the greatest biography written in the English language.

Boswell's surname has passed into the English language as a term (_Boswell_, _Boswellian_, _Boswellism_) for a constant companion and observer, especially one who records those observations in print. In _A Scandal in Bohemia_, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's character Sherlock Holmes affectionately says of Dr. Watson, who narrates the tales, "I am lost without my Boswell."[1]

**According to waynea of Yahoo Answers, ". . .** Holmes is paying Watson a compliment by (somewhat humorously) comparing him to Boswell, but also meaning that Watson was so helpful that he, Holmes, would be lost without him.**"**

**This is my attempt at writing what I call ACDC - Arthur Conan Doyle Canonical (fiction). If you see a lot of run-on sentences, I know they are run-ons; that's simply how Conan Doyle wrote as John Watson. And God love him, John Watson has a lot of run-ons! Hope you enjoyed it!**

**I believe in Sherlock Holmes! (And we need series 4, for goodness sake.)**

**Love,**

**Meg **

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12/02/14 - 3/16/14

{Slight revisions made on 5/2/14}


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